


Twined

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Mandy watching them be in love mostly, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mandy comes over to visit Ian and Mickey while Ian's sick. </p><p>"They’re on the couch with Ian mostly on top of Mickey. In theory it should be uncomfortable for Mickey, since Ian’s long limed with hard, heavy, curves of muscle, but her brother seems far too happy for a person who’s possibly being crushed."</p><p>(future fic that takes place in "Ticket in his Fist" universe, all you really need to know about it though is that Mickey's a profesional boxers and even that's only kind of relevant.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twined

**Author's Note:**

> So unbetad, but I read it through a couple dozen times so I'm hoping for the best. Mickey and Mandy have a very colorful vocabulary, but that's about as close to a warning as it needs. FLUFF :D Enjoy!

 

“Mickey, Ian, open the fucking door”

Mandy hears the muffled rattle of a cough seep out from the crack between the door and the floorboards, but no movement.

“You have a key bitch. Fucking use it.”

It’s Mickey’s voice, clear and annoyed, with worry buzzing in the undertones

“You know I really thought being with Ian for ten years would have at least taught you some fucking manners,” she says loudly enough for them to hear it inside the apartment as she fishes her key from her purse and pokes it in the lock. It’s a high quality one, the kind resistant to picking. Even the plastic parts are dipped in stainless steel.

“Fuck you, I’m busy.”

There’s a few quite puffs of ragged breath then Ian’s voice this time thick and crackling.

“Yeah he’s busy being an asshole and a pillow, sorry.”

The lock slides into place and Mandy pulls the door open. As pissed as she is they didn’t let her in, she has to agree they had good reason.

They’re on the couch with Ian mostly on top of Mickey. In theory it should be uncomfortable for Mickey, since Ian’s long limed with hard, heavy curves of muscle, but her brother seems far too happy for a person who’s possibly being crushed. Mickey has one hand curled behind Ian’s neck, keeping her friend’s head in place on the bare pads of chest while it carves loose patterns into the sweaty red fuzz at the base of Ian’s scalp. The other arm is twisted over Ian’s back, figures tracing the knobs of his spine. There’s a blanket tangled around their legs and Ian’s wrapped in a worn hoodie she’s pretty sure is her brother’s but she can see him shiver slightly as he burrows further into Mickey.

They always do this, she’s noticed. They’re not usually that touchy-feely especially around other people, even the Gallagher’s and Mandy who have known about them for eight years now. But whenever one of them gets sick or hurt or is sad or weakened in any way they latch on to each other, find a place to hibernate, and don’t detach until they’re both better again. It’s like they think that if they can disappear inside each other then everything will magically be fixed. And it seemed to work a lot of the time too; she’s seen Mickey beat strep throat in a week by spending the entire time trapped in Ian’s freckled arms.

Mickey is ignoring the flashes of color and words on the TV in front of them (Myth Busters by the looks of it) in favor of staring at Ian with this sickeningly soft look on his usually rough features. Ian who’s half-listening to the physics of bamboo growing into a ballistic dummy with his face turned into the couch and Mickey’s shoulder and the seams of eyes stitched almost shut apears to feel his gaze. He rolls his head so he’s facing Mickey, blinks his jungle-green eyes as he catches him in the act and mutters, “Perv” before arching his neck the five inches upwards to Mickey’s lips, touching them to his own fever-cracked ones then dropping back down to nest into Mickey’s side.

It’s so disgustingly sweet it makes Mandy ache with jealousy because the way they’re twined together and the way the look it each other screams  _love_  and Mandy used to look at Lip like that but he never looked back.

They don’t even seem to notice Mandy’s entered the apartment until she nudges the door closed with her elbow.

“Hey. I brought applesauce. Homemade,” she says, raising a plastic container filled with golden mush in the air.  _Because it always makes me smile when I’m sick._

Mickey’s eyes flick up from Ian’s face to hers and he grunts a greeting. He stretches the wrist that’s draped over Ian’s back to grab the remote wedged under his hips. The “K” inked on his index finger finds the red rubber of the “channel” button. He flips through the networks, lips curling in sympathy at a clip of a younger version of himself getting punched in the face that’s playing on a sports station. He moves on from it quickly and settles for of Deadliest Predator.

“Since when can you cook?” Mickey asks politely as ever.

“I bought it asshole. And I cook fucking fine, thanks.”

Ian’s irises do a lap around their sockets and he scolds Mickey with a slap where the skin stretches thinnest against his ribs. Wincing, he spins his body slowly to face her, moving like gears in a rusty clock.

“Thanks Mands. Good to see you,” he says with a tired grin.

She feels a smile unfurl onto her own face, cutting into her cheek bones and sewing crinkles into the corners of her eyes. Even when he sounds like he swallowed a meth lab and looks like he’s auditioning for a roll in a zombie movie Ian Gallagher can light up a room.

“Yeah you too. How ya’ feeling?” she answers, taking Ian’s almost empty water from the table as she moves to the kitchen. The fridge door suctions open with a reluctant “pop”. She wedges the applesauce between the milk and the excessive supply of Jello then takes two beers in one hand, the glass necks of the bottles clinking together. She refills Ian’s cup, watching the water swirl and bubble as it climbs the round walls for a moment before looking towards the couch out of the corner of her eye.

“Better,” he croaks unconvincingly.

“Says the guy who couldn’t hold down toast this morning,” Mickey scoffs.

“Hey I could to hold down the toast! It was the jam that did it, and I think that was going bad anyway.”

“Just keep telling yourself that Firecrotch.”

“Ugh Mickey, how many times have I told you not to fucking call him that when I’m around,” she interrupts with a grimace as she walks back to the couch, setting Ian’s water on the table.

“Whatever.”

Mickey lifts his arm, pointing it to her and snapping his figures against his thumb like the beak of a bird in a “gimme” motion. She glares at him, but thrust the beer into his palm anyway.

Mandy flops on to the cushions of an arm chair next to the couch, tucking her heels under her shins to cross her legs. She catches the cap in the blunt of her molars, jerking her neck to free it from the bottle.

“So,” she says, flipping her long brown hair over and folding the wild strands into a bun. A piece escapes the confines of the hair tie and floats down in front of her eyes. She blows on it, but it bobs lazily and stays there.

“Who’s up for X-box?”

…………

 

About an hour, a good dozen close rounds of Mario Kart (Call of Duty had been off limits since Ian came back from his second tour with a bullet in his left shoulder that permanently fucked up the nerves in his arm and a moderate case of PTSD) two beers and a glass of water on Ian’s part, which Mickey had manipulated him into finishing, the game was rapidly losing steam.

Ian, who was propped up to a sitting position against Mickey’s side, had abandoned his control and was nodding off into her brother’s shoulder, head slowly drooping further down, and making fast progression for Mickey’s lap. 

Mandy’s second beer was empty now, only a scattering amber drops bounced meekly inside it when she shook the bottle.

Mickey had lost this round because he kept looking at Ian and cupping the side of his face to check his temperature, letting the joy stick slide aimlessly under his thumb and causing the Bowser and Koopa Kid he was controlling to shriek as their car skidded wildly and dove off the Rainbow Road (Mandy never failed to get a few good gay jokes in when they played that track, simply for the joy of pissing off Mickey). The daisy and Mario in Mandy’s Kart make their various computerized cheers as they take a victory lap.

She notices Mickey’s beer is still half full, caged loosely in the figures of his right hand as he uses his left to paw gently at Ian’s forehead _again_.

“Mick, it’s going to be the same as it was five minutes ago,” Ian complains, swatting half-heartedly at Mickey’s hand on his face, but giving up and almost involuntarily sagging into the touch.  

“Just checking, the advil’s wearing off, but I think it’s getting lower.”

Ian mumbles something that sounds like “Over protective asshole,” and with a small upwards twitch of his lips he finally lets his head slip into Mickey’s lap. With Ian shifting against Mickey’s thigh providing a distraction, Mandy makes a lunge for her brother’s beer.

She succeeds in bringing it halfway to her lips before Mickey swipes it so fast she gets a jagged chip in the turquoise nail polish on her pinkie.

“Da’ fuck bitch? Get your own.”

“But you let Ian have some of your last one and he’s sick!”

“Yeah well he’s Ian.”

“And?”

“And fucking nothing”

Mandy huffs, showing her brother the pink tip of her tongue while she flips him off and stomps to the fridge. She slams it closed after taking another beer, cherry Jello cups jiggling on the shelf with the force of her push before disappearing behind the door. She sinks back into her chair as dramatically as one can sink into something that has a foot of cushioning, staring daggers at Mickey then at the TV, which had been switched to Myth Busters again.

Ian looked smug, shit-eating grin shoving the freckles dusted on his fever-flushed cheeks all the way up to his eyes.

“You keep grinning like that and I will make you fucking hurt Gallagher,” Mickey says but a smile had crept into the corners of his mouth and the swing of his voice.

“Because you have _such_ a great reputation for fallowing through on the threats you make to me.”

“You want fallow through? I’ll show you fucking fallow through.”

With that Mickey digs the pads of his fingers into Ian’s abs and moves them like scurrying spiders against the muscle.

Ian squeals in a way none of them could justify as manly, laughter bubbling out in gasps as he writhes, desperately attempting to squirm away.

“Fu-fucking stop Mick!”

Mickey cackles low and evilly, persisting in the torment, and laying down next to Ian to get a better angle on his ribs.

Suddenly the breathy flails of Ian’s laughter turn into to sharp coughs. Mickey stops tickling him instantly, smoothing an arm around Ian’s back and pulling his shuddering frame close to his chest.

“Hey, I gotcha,” Mickey whispers while he strokes circles on the jumping muscles of Ian’s shoulder blades.

Ian groans and makes like he’s trying to hide himself in Mickey as the coughs spike then calm and flutter into heavy pants. He stays there even when he’s breathing regains it’s rhythm and grows even with sleep.

            Mandy leaves twenty minutes later and Mickey spares her a brief glance and something like a smile as she peels from the chair and adjusts the strap of her purse.

            _It must be nice,_ she thinks, watching Mickey refocuses on skimming his knuckles over Ian’s temple.

            _It must be nice to be twined._

**Author's Note:**

> If you r&r I will give you imaginary cookies :D


End file.
